CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) by Kemmie Michaels Page B

to bring her to my door in such a state. I hold her protectively in my arms, keeping her tucked against my chest and surrounded by whatever comfort I can offer as I control my panic…and contain my thrill of holding her so closely.  
    "Come on," I finally say gently. "Let's sit down."
    She allows me to walk her to the couch where she pulls herself into me again. Forever seems to pass before she whispers in a shaky, broken voice, a single phrase leaves her mouth. Her words make no sense.  
    "He's dead, and I never forgave him."
    Her hand twists the ring, and occasionally pulls the masculine circle from her thumb, only to hurriedly return it a moment later. A thousand thoughts rush into my head, as I wonder who this he might be. Her childhood sweetheart? Ex-lover? Ex- ... husband ?  
    I choke back every insecure question and dedicate myself to Quinn's needs, and away from my own selfish thoughts. She's relying on me right now, and I can't let her down. I've done enough of that with the women in my life.  
    "God, Callen," she says as her sobs become nearly violent. I hold her close in an attempt to keep her body from falling apart along with the rest of her.  
    "You're going to be ok," I whisper, knowing at least that the source of her anguish is dead and unable to physically harm her. As for the rest of her, I'll keep her close and get her through this. "I got you."
    She shakes her head in an act of denial. I understand the grief and the inability to acknowledge reality. Whoever she grieves holds a tight grip on her heart.  
    When her breathing finally calms and her tears run quietly down her beautiful skin, her eyes looks up at me in a vulnerable shade of gray, all hints of blue drained by her tears. Her crying, however, has highlighted those irises in a sparkling display of both sadness and undeniable beauty.  
    My heart breaks for the depth of her despair, yet soars that she sought me out for her comfort. I rub my hand gently along her back and repeat to her, "I got you."
    She nods this time and uses a half-shredded tissue to blot her eyes. I offer her a fresh one. In such a dainty way, she blows her nose into the white square and looks up at me again.  
    "Thank you," she whispers through a tear-ravaged voice.  
    "Of course," I respond quietly. A long time of silence passes before I dare ask a question. "Do you want to talk about it?"
    "No," she shakes her head.  
    "Ok," I accept, leaving the disappointment out of my voice. "Can you tell me who?" I add selfishly after a moment, unable to keep my question in.  
    A deep breath moves through her lips as she pauses in a hint of tension. She finally nods her head as she speaks, "My father."
    I pull her in closely as my mind processes her grief, as well as my own relief. I realize the irony: I don't want to compete with a ghost of Quinn's ex-love.  
    Her father, however, brings a different dimension to her grief. I have no idea what she needed to forgive, and I still refuse to look into her life to find out.  
    Now, however, the temptation to learn the nature of her family dynamic is nearly overwhelming. I choke that down along with the rest of my questions and simply hold her.
    Her sobs occasionally return, then ease again, only to wrack her body painfully once more. I only leave her to bring her water and Tylenol. She settles beside me when I sit down, and she thanks me for the water.  
    More than two hours have passed since her knock at my door. This woman isn't weak in the least, but experiencing her in a moment of brokenness has added to the complexity of my feelings for her.  
    Where I once was simply drawn to her on both a physical and intellectual basis, I now am forced to confront my emotional connection, as well.  
    "Can I stay here tonight?" she asks quietly. "I can't be at home."
    "Of course," I murmur. "You can have my room. Give me a minute to put fresh sheets on my bed for you."
    She looks at the floor and nods "Thank you."
    I leave her for a few